


Takeaway

by tiger_in_the_flightdeck



Series: Tiger's Tumblr Ficlets [34]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Bisexual John Watson, Bisexual Puns, Experienced John, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 09:59:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7613719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_in_the_flightdeck/pseuds/tiger_in_the_flightdeck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock haven't had time to spend together in weeks, between cases and work and occasionally trying to sleep. A case is finished, John has the night off, and they are going to eat takeaway, watch films, and most definitely not talk about whatever it is that's been growing between them.<br/>Actions speak louder than words, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Takeaway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KateLRAR](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateLRAR/gifts).



_ Xiao Long Bao, crispy spring rolls, char siu bao, two portions of wonton soup, and three dozen fortune cookies. _

John sorted through the bags of takeaway he was carrying, juggling them from one wrist to the other while lifting up different cartons and walking down the street. He wove in and out of the traffic of pedestrians without looking up to where he was going. It was a route he had taken countless times before, so he knew where to put his feet and when to step over the inevitable puddle and which way to lean his body to avoid the pavement preacher decrying sex, short skirts, and liquor. 

Rubbing his ear to silence the ringing voice, John picked up his pace, eager to get home. It had been a long week, and work had been stressful. Between cases, patients, and training a new nurse at the surgery, he and Sherlock had barely seen more than fleeting glimpses of the backs of each other’s heads. A few sticky notes left around the flat and the occasional obscure text had been all of their conversation for more than a week.

It was different from those days when Sherlock would sit silently on the sofa and stare, morose and moody, at the wall. At least then, they were still together. John could simply look over the top of his newspaper or over the edge of his teacup to see Sherlock there on the other side of the living room. If John would let himself admit it, he would say that he was lonely. 

Finding a sticky note inside his wallet while he was at work-  _ Case done. Bring home food. I’ll set up a stream for that toy army series you pretend you don’t actually like. :) _  -John had spent the rest of the day in a great mood. Even the five-year-old who had jabbed him in the eye with her elbow while he was giving her a shot hadn’t been enough to spoil it. 

“I’m home,” he called as he made his way up the stairs, in case Sherlock was deep inside his own head. 

“I know,” Sherlock replied from the kitchen. “I heard the door open.” He came out to the living room, using the handle of a spoon to pry a cap off a bottle of beer. Nostrils flaring, he looked at the bags of takeaway before a slow smile spread over his lips. “Pork buns,” he moaned and traded the beer for the food. 

Pleased to see that Sherlock was eating without needing to be pestered or bribed, John accepted the drink. It wasn’t his favourite brand, but he took a long swallow anyway and took a seat on the sofa. “So the case wrapped up well?” he asked and used the back of his wrist to wipe away a bit of foam that had spilled down his chin. 

Around his mouthful of one of the buns, Sherlock made some sort of incoherent garbling, but nodded, so John chose to take that as an affirmative. Crumbs spilled out of his mouth, which seemed to be a perfect match to the stained shirt and inside out flannel pyjama bottoms he was wearing. John reached out to brush the crumbs off of his chest before he could sit on the sofa with him. 

“It was the neighbour’s boyfriend, just as I said.” Sherlock swallowed loudly and squirmed about on the sofa to make himself more comfortable. 

He was like a cat, John had thought more than once. Fully capable of curling himself into a tight ball to fit into the small confines of his chair or to squeeze down a narrow crawl space. But also able to defy the basic laws of physics by taking up more room than his body had any right to. Sherlock had that feline ability of turning liquid and forming to his surroundings at will, usually at the most inconvenient times for other people. 

Such as when John wanted to stretch out and relax, only to find a pair of canoes in mismatched socks pressed up against his thigh. When one wiggled into his lap, flexing for attention, John sighed in disgust and began to massage it. 

“How did you know it was him? You didn’t even see him,” John pointed out, thankful that Sherlock was at least wearing clean socks, even if one was blue while the other was purple and pink striped. 

“Exactly,” Sherlock’s eyes glittered like cooling silver and he pressed his free foot into John’s side, tickling at his ribs with his toes. “He was the only one of the neighbourhood I didn’t speak with. The only one whose tread marks I wasn’t able to get a sample for. With everyone else ruled out, it was obvious it would have to be him. I gave the information to Gregson, and he went to interview the neighbour. Turns out she had mentioned to her boyfriend her discomfort with the victim, and the boyfriend took that to mean she wanted him… Removed.” Punctuating his conclusions with a loud crunching bite into a spring roll, Sherlock moved his finger in the air to music that only he could hear, his eyes half closed and dreamy. 

“Ridiculous,” 

John could practically hear the record in Sherlock’s head screech to a halt as he looked up at him with something close to a pout. “Excuse me?” 

Patting the bottom of Sherlock’s blue foot, John chuckled. “Not you,” he insisted. “You were brilliant as ever. I’m talking about the police. They wouldn’t have needed to bring you in if they’d just asked some more questions. What was the victim like? Was there anyone who had a problem with him? Instead they had you doing all the running around while they stood there arguing over who took the last non dairy creamer.” 

“Are you ever going to get over your dislike of Gregson?” Sherlock asked with a snort, offering John one of the soup buns. 

It burst when he bit into it, fragrant broth spilling down his hand and over his wrist before he could eat the whole thing. John sucked the broth off the inside of his wrist and swabbed at his shirt with some crumpled up paper napkins. “Not likely, no,” he chuckled, tossing the sodden mess to the coffee table. “He just rubs me the wrong way.” 

He didn’t respect Sherlock, that was the problem. Gregson was quick enough to turn to him for help, and praise him in private. But he’d rather be stuck behind a stack of paperwork and do community meetings before he would admit to needing Sherlock to lead him down the correct path to an arrest. That Sherlock acted like an eager schoolboy with a crush around him rankled John in a way he wasn’t comfortable addressing. He would settle on scowling at the big blond detective from behind police caution tape, and standing unnecessarily close to Sherlock while on cases. 

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock turned to the laptop he had set up in the middle of the coffee table to start the film. Barely ten minutes into it, and Sherlock was already bored.

“Bisexual,” 

“I beg your pardon?” John almost choked on a swallow of beer. 

“Him,” he gestured at the screen. “He’s bisexual.” 

Brow furrowed, John stared at the film, trying to figure out where Sherlock was getting that. So far, all that had really happened had been a lot of explosions, some running around, and typical ‘army buddy’ bickering. Never mind the woman in the cliche black rubber catsuit and high heels. 

“Well,” John cleared his throat and tipped his head to the side. “I mean, he and his mate are close,” he mumbled. 

“Oh, his friend is assuredly bisexual, but I didn’t mean the character. The actor.” 

“Don’t tell me you buy into that whole ‘Everyone’s a little bi in Hollywood’ bollocks.” John pinched Sherlock’s heel and huffed out a breath. 

Sherlock flapped his hand to dismiss John’s remark. “Of course I don’t. That would be completely ridiculous, considering the number of people in ‘Hollywood’ after all.” Sherlock sketched a pair of remarkably sarcastic air quotes with his fingers next to his head, which only served to make him look like he was miming an annoyed rabbit. 

“Then what was it? The way he styles his hair? How he ties his shoes? The way he-” 

“The way he is attracted to his male co-stars.” Sherlock drawled, those silver eyes beginning to glitter with sparks of green. 

John sputtered for a moment, his mouth working wetly as he tried to form words. “You can’t possibly know that, just from watching a person act. It’s not possible.” 

Sherlock looked positively gleeful at watching John work on stringing a sentence together without bursting a blood vessel. “Not technically impossible, just very difficult. Especially on screen. But that wasn’t what I meant. What do you think I do all day when you’re at work and I have no cases or experiments on? The internet is a wonderful place, John. You learn so many things.” 

“You Googled him? Sherlock Holmes. Googled an actor. Sat down at a computer and ran someone’s name through a search engine. So you could…?” 

Sherlock let out a long, wistful sigh and sank deeper into the sofa. “Buff, blond, and bi. I seem to have a type,” he murmured before turning his attention back to the film just in time for another explosion to light his face and highlight the crinkles around his eyes and the curve of his lips as he struggled to keep from grinning too widely. 

John just stared at him in amazement. 

As the film went on, John continued his massage, moving his fingers up Sherlock’s ankles. He traced the little white puncture marks around his Achilles tendon, wondering if he would ever get the story behind them, then trailed his fingertips up the lean muscle of his calf. His hands trembled when he dug his thumbs into the tight muscle, earning a deep throated moan from Sherlock. 

“You were running around too much.” John used the heel of his hand to work into the tension, carefully massaging it away before moving to his knobbly knees. 

“Hmmn,” Sherlock agreed and opened his legs to give John more room. 

John had reached Sherlock’s thighs, hiking up the legs of his pyjamas as he went before he actually realised that he had his hands up his friend’s trousers and was rubbing him in a way that-

Sherlock moaned again, his lips parted and pink. 

It would be impossible to beat a graceful retreat. John was stuck where he was unless he wanted to make a scene. Something would happen, he was sure. Mrs. Hudson would come upstairs with a tray of nibbles, or Lestrade would bound in with a new case. Mycroft would show up to announce that the country was in danger, and only the pair of them could save it. A car would explode outside.  _ Something  _ to break the tenuous intimacy of the moment. 

“Dumpling?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, sweetheart?” John replied. 

Sherlock chuckled. 

John snickered. 

Then they were giggling together. John had his face pressed into Sherlock’s stomach, his head bouncing every time he took in a breath for another peal of laughter. Playful and clumsy, John pulled one hand out of Sherlock’s pyjamas to fumble for the bag of takeaway. 

“No, the last soup bun is mine!” Sherlock argued, trying to hold the bag out of the way of John’s reach. It would have been much easier if he wasn’t effectively pinned to the sofa from his hips to his shoulders. 

John stretched out an arm to reach for them, but forgot to take his other hand out of Sherlock’s trouser leg. Sherlock writhed and bucked. The delicate balance shifted. 

And they both landed on the floor. 

The breath rushed out of John’s lungs as Sherlock landed on his chest in an ungainly heap of arms and legs. One knee narrowly missed ruining the rest of the evening and Sherlock’s shoulder collided with John’s chin. 

Once he got most of his breath back, John laughed, resting his hands on Sherlock’s waist to try to lift him up. “God, you are made up of all sharp angles.” He shifted under Sherlock, moving himself a bit further along the carpet until his knees were on either side of Sherlock’s hips before he realised he was doing it. 

It dragged their groins slowly together, not quite a grind but certainly enough friction to feel what was under their clothes and showing the interest they both clearly had in the position. Sherlock’s mouth went slack again for a moment before he cleared his throat. Between one second and the next, he rose smoothly to his feet and ran his fingers back through his hair to push it away from his face. 

“Sherlock?” John propped himself up on his elbow to try to see what was wrong. Before he could get anything else out, Sherlock had retreated to the kitchen. 

With a heavy sigh, John hauled himself up and grabbed the half empty bottle of beer from the table to follow him. “What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked, tapping his nails on the neck of the bottle before setting it down on the mess of the kitchen table. 

Sherlock had his back to him, his fingers still in his hair. “I wanted to kiss you, John.” he bit out harshly, dropping his hands to his sides to smack against his thighs. 

John prided himself on being able to keep his voice under control when he spoke. “I could tell. Why didn’t you?” It was flat, hiding his emotion. 

The whole night had been building up to it, if he had been reading the situation properly. Much longer than just that night. No dates for months for him, missing Sherlock like mad, the flirting, the touching, if all of that hadn’t been leading toward something between them, then John was more confused now than he normally was. 

“Because I am rather fond of our friendship, and I would rather not have it all come crashing down around me as a result of giving into a stupid impulse in the heat of the moment.” Turning around, Sherlock glared. 

John saw that those incredible eyes were ringed with red and overly bright. With a sympathetic sound in the back of his throat, John stepped forward and caressed Sherlock’s jaw. His thumb brushed over one impossible cheekbone and he rose up on his toes. 

He hesitated for a moment, giving Sherlock a chance to escape. When he made no move to run, John slid his fingers back through his hair to tip his head to the side before drawing him down so they could meet in the middle. 

The earth didn’t move under his feet. There was no flash and bang of fireworks overhead. No swelling rise of music or rush of waves. Sherlock’s lips were a bit wet and John only managed to reach the full bottom one with his own thin lips. They both tasted like barbecue pork and ginger. Sherlock’s nose was pressed into John’s cheek, making his breath come out in a high, whistling whine. 

It was so perfectly imperfect, and John wouldn’t have changed it for the world. 

“No crashing,” John murmured when he pulled back, rocking to his heels. 

For a moment, Sherlock stood still. His face was flushed pink from his hairline down into the collar of his shirt and he looked like a stiff breeze would knock him over. His eyes ticked from side to side as if he was reading something, then his lashes fluttered. 

“Everything’s still here. We’re okay, Sher- Oonf!”

Sherlock sagged against John, wrapping his arms around him and kissing him hard. It was clumsy and sloppy, too much tongue, not enough air, and John was grinning into it. 

Hands on the small of Sherlock’s back, John slid them lower until they were cupped under the full swells of his round arse. With a soft grunt of effort, John picked him up and turned around to set Sherlock on the edge of the dining table. 

Leaning back, Sherlock braced his hands on the table. One knocked against John’s beer bottle. It rocked and tipped over. Thick white foam burbled out of the mouth, splashing over Sherlock’s fingers and dripping to the floor. 

Together they laughed and swore and tried to mop up the mess before it spread. While John blotted at the beer with a stained tea towel, Sherlock moved his notepads and charts out of the way. He moved to hop back onto the table before he frowned and picked up his microscope, carrying it over to the breakfast nook. It was soon joined by several Erlenmeyer flasks and a small distillery set up. 

John folded his arms over his chest and leaned back on the bench, drumming his fingers on his biceps as he watched him fuss about. “If I’d known that all I needed to do to get you to tidy up was give you a kiss, I would have done this ages ago.”

It was clear that Sherlock didn’t recognise the teasing tone when he straightened up with a set of plastic pipettes in one hand and a sheaf of composition papers in the other and a look of mild panic on his face. “Bad timing?” 

“As much as I’d love to have room to actually eat my dinner at the table, I have more interesting things in mind.” John hooked an arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him back to lean against his chest. Turning him around, John plucked the equipment out of his hands and laced their fingers together before guiding them around his neck. His own hands slipped down to Sherlock’s thighs, lifting him up once more. This time he set him down on the relatively clean bench next to the sink of drying dishes. 

The bench was much higher than the table, putting Sherlock at John’s waist instead of his hips. Even standing on his toes, John had trouble reaching Sherlock to kiss him so he focused his attention on the set of moles on his throat and the line of freckles that trailed down over his collarbone and under his shirt. Little nibbling kisses that left the faintest marks on Sherlock’s skin. 

John was startled by a loud thump and looked up to see that Sherlock had let his head fall back against the cupboard doors. His eyes had drifted shut and his mouth was open and slack. Grinning with pride, John leaned back to admire his handiwork. Sherlock was blushing and breathing fast with just a few kisses and the front of his pyjama bottoms were tented out in the front. 

Through the cloth, John could see the size and shape of him, and the way he curved up toward his abdomen rather than standing straight out. “May I?” John asked, his fingers twitching at the fabric around Sherlock’s waistband. 

Sherlock came back to himself so suddenly he nearly toppled forward off the bench and onto John. Only a quick grab for the cupboard handle beside his head kept him from lurching off. “You  _ want  _ to?”

He sounded so scandalised, John had to suppress a giggle of delight. “I may not be particularly buff, but I do fit the rest of your ‘type’, Sherlock.” 

Once again, those brilliant eyes flickered as he blinked rapidly, obviously trying to figure out what John meant by that. “By… by which you mean…” 

“Exactly; Bi which I mean.” 

The cupboard rattled and bounced as Sherlock nodded eagerly. He braced one hand on the bench to lift his hips up, making it easier for John to slip his fingers under his waistband. 

“Oh, look at this beauty.” John trailed the backs of his fingers along the underside of Sherlock’s length, smirking slightly when it bobbed and twitched against his touch. He knelt slowly to the floor, fitting himself between Sherlock’s knees. Looking up at him, John leaned forward to flick his tongue against the base of his cock. 

“Christ, John…” Sherlock fisted his hand into the hair at the back of John’s head, being careful not to tug. When his tongue moved again, he failed. 

John moved his head, pushing into Sherlock’s hand, encouraging him to use it to guide him where it felt best. He opened his mouth, still looking up into Sherlock’s eyes, holding his gaze as John closed his lips around the smooth head of his erection. The foreskin was drawn back, giving John a taste of the bitter fluid that was gathering around the tip each time Sherlock’s heart beat, causing him to pulse and sway. 

“Can we leave the kitchen?” Sherlock gasped out eventually. One of his legs was stretched out so his foot was braced on the table, the other swinging freely in the air. It was a precarious position and he was worried that any moment he would go sliding off the bench in a graceless collapse. Or worse, that someone would charge in and find him there in nothing but a shirt and mismatched socks and only John’s mouth keeping him somewhat concealed. It would take years to get back the respect he had built up with Scotland Yard, if DIs giggled every time they saw him.  

With one of his knees creaking out a loud protest, John pulled himself back to his feet, still fitting between Sherlock’s legs. “Your room or mine?” he asked, pecking Sherlock quickly on the lips. 

He pulled a face, tasting himself on John’s mouth. Sherlock did a quick mental inventory of the chaos of his bedroom and tried to remember the last time he changed his sheets. It would completely spoil the mood to try to look alluring and seductive spread out on his bed when there were toast crumbs stuck to his skin and a book falling off the headboard to land on his face. “Your room,” he finally announced and slipped off the bench. 

Every few steps on their way upstairs, John stopped them so he could kiss Sherlock, pressing him against the wall, the door, the bannister, the table. They discarded pieces of clothing as they went, dropping them in a path to find their way back to the real world when they were finished. 

John’s bedroom was cool and comfortable. Dark shades of greens and blues were relaxing, and when they shut the door to press against it, giggling and grinding, it shut the rest of London out. 

Stepping back from Sherlock, John peeled his singlet over his head and dropped it aside before hooking his thumbs into the back of his serviceable grey pants to push them past his hips. His erection caught on the Y-front, pulling down against his thighs only for it to snap back up like a trebuchet. 

He wasn’t as long as Sherlock, but a good deal thicker, with less of a curve. Closing his fist around the middle, his thumb and finger would just barely touch if he squeezed. John licked his lips nervously, watching Sherlock’s face for any change of his expression. “Okay?” 

Sherlock opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He turned his head to cough and gave it another try. “Mrrgn,” he said, then winced.

“An ego stroke is almost as good as a stroke with a hand.” 

“It’s entirely unfair that you can be so eloquent at a moment like this, John.” Sherlock muttered. Try as he might to look annoyed, his cock bounced for attention. 

“Pretty much the only time I’m actually eloquent,” John chuckled and held his hands out to Sherlock, inviting him to come forward. When Sherlock slipped his hands into John’s, he was drawn close. 

Bodies flush from shoulders to thighs, they stood, not moving as they allowed themselves a chance to breathe and feel one another. It was John who made the first move, stepping back to the bed and sitting down on the edge. He brought Sherlock down to straddle his lap. Wrapping one arm tightly around his waist, John turned them both so Sherlock was on his back and braced himself up above him. He walked his fingers down his side and over the lean muscle of Sherlock’s thigh to guide it over his hip. 

“You have such a gorgeous body,” John murmured, lowering his head to brush his nose into the hollow of Sherlock’s throat. Rather than something lyrical and poetic like cherry bark and wildflowers, Sherlock smelled of clean laundry, John’s body wash, and spilled tea with too much sugar. John’s tongue peeked out to taste him, finding that the sugar was still on his skin. He gave in to the temptation that had been there since he had first seen Sherlock, and latched his mouth onto his throat, sucking a love bite where his scarf would  _ just  _ be able to conceal it. 

Under him, Sherlock arched and gripped the backs of John’s arms. His heel slid up and down John’s thighs before it slipped between them to pull him more completely on top of him. Sherlock rested one hand on John’s chest just below his injury to help support his weight in case his arm decided to buckle and give out on him. “Do you have- I mean, I know you have some- Is there any…” Sherlock huffed out a breath and pursed his lips into a tight line of annoyance. He inhaled sharply through his nose to try to calm himself down. “Condoms and lubricant,” he finally barked, stabbing a finger to the side to point at John’s side table. 

Face brightening in a grin, John rocked up to his knees and leaned over to root through his side table drawer. There was an unopened box of condoms at the front, with a half empty bottle of lubricant at the back. The label was partially peeled off and John had to check it against the light because the bottle was alarmingly similar in size and shape to the hand sanitiser he had in the same drawer. One screaming mistake when he’d globbed it onto his prick in the middle of the night had been enough to make sure he was careful in future. 

“Why don’t you just move the other bottle?” Sherlock asked, reading John’s mind easily, and putting two and two together from that night when a horrible, blood curdling bellow from upstairs had woken him after one of John’s late shifts. 

“Because I use it to clean my hands after I have a wank.” John had long since given up guessing how Sherlock could tell what he was thinking. “I usually…” He trailed off and mimed pushing two fingers into a tight hole and crooking them to find a prostate. 

Sherlock’s pupils blew wide even in the dim light of the room and he squeezed his thighs together involuntarily, his toes curling against the bedsheets. 

“What?” John chuckled as he opened a condom. He checked it for tears before drawing his foreskin back to roll it on, being careful to squeeze the air out of it as he went. Giving himself a shake to make sure he stayed hard, he turned his attention back to Sherlock who was still shifting and squirming. “Did you think I just stroked and had a lazy orgasm? Laid back and thought about the empire while fucking my fist?”

“Hrrnggf,” Sherlock replied. 

John crawled up the bed to guide Sherlock down against the pillows. He put his lips next to his ear and breathed hot and rough over it. “I’m a doctor, Sherlock. I know everywhere to touch, and be touched.” 

Sherlock swore and wrapped his legs around John, his heels pressing into his arse to spur him on. 

Their kisses were slow and languid compared to the way their hips were moving to grind against each other. John spent several long minutes playing connect the dots with the moles and freckles across Sherlock’s chest and belly and down his legs. He used them to make patterns and spell out words, rewarding Sherlock with a deeper kiss if he guessed them right. 

“I do not have a bunny on my bum!” Sherlock broke into a stuttering peal of laughter when John made loud chomping sounds, mouthing at the curve where his thigh met his hip. As he twisted and squirmed away, he rolled to his front. Shifting himself so his cock wasn’t being held off to the side, Sherlock lifted his hips in the air for a brief second. 

It was just long enough for John to groan loudly and slide his hands under him to keep him in place. Arse tipped up and thighs open, Sherlock was presenting himself for John and it was more than he could handle. 

John stroked his palms over the swells of his plump rump, using them to part his cheeks gently. Lowering his head, John ran his tongue from Sherlock’s sac to his tailbone before nuzzling in to give his focus to the hole that flexed and opened under the attention. 

Sherlock melted. His arms and legs went limp and the only thing keeping him from collapsing completely into the bed was John’s hold under his hips. His mind went blissfully silent. There were no guesses, no deductions or inferences, just the wet movement of John’s tongue, the stubble of his cheeks against his cleft, and the warmth of his breath between his thighs. He tried to muster the coordination to reach back to thread his fingers into John’s hair, but only managed to pet him in encouragement. 

Cupping Sherlock’s bollocks in one hand, John rolled them between his fingers then let them hang, heavy and full. He licked his fingertips so he could carefully press it against Sherlock’s hole to see how sensitive he was there. It was always a guessing game at that point. Some of his partners had needed a great deal of lubrication and preparation just to take a single finger up to the knuckle, while others were like himself and could take two with no more slick than a bit of saliva and some deep breathing. While it made his showers much more interesting, John didn’t want to risk bruising Sherlock. 

To his relief, Sherlock opened easily and he was able to work his finger into the snug heat, feeling himself squeezed. That tightness that tried to draw his finger in deeper was enough for John to know he wouldn’t last long. He couldn’t tell if Sherlock was intentionally flexing his muscles or if his body naturally moved like that, but he wanted to make sure Sherlock got the most out of this. 

“Roll over for me?” John pulled his hand away and picked up the bottle of lube. 

Sherlock flopped over, his limbs still useless so John had to help him. 

Rolling his eyes, John shook the bottle to try to warm the contents up before pumping some into his hand. He stretched out alongside Sherlock and kissed him tenderly while working two of his fingers into him. When he found the smooth bulge of his prostate, John caressed it until precome was streaming out in a steady flow onto his stomach and Sherlock’s body relaxed. His fingers were moving with little resistance and John pulled them away to position himself between Sherlock’s legs. 

When he began to slowly thrust into Sherlock, he felt him tighten around his head and John was worried the condom would stretch and snap. He let up, looking down at him in concern. 

“It just all hit me,” Sherlock panted, clinging to John with his arms and legs. “We’re actually doing this.”

John leaned to one side so he could reach up and brush Sherlock’s hair back from his face, and rubbed their noses together. “We’re trying to do this. Take a slow, deep breath for me and let your body relax. In through your nose and out through your mouth.” John didn’t move until he felt Sherlock’s breathing ease out and his legs fall wider. He took his time, murmuring reassuring words and praise to Sherlock until he bottomed out. Sherlock’s arse fit into the scoop of John’s pelvis, and the curves of his hips fit perfectly into his strong hands. 

He didn’t trust himself to move yet, and John could only stare down between them to where their bodies were joined together. After catching his breath, he slowly slid out until he felt Sherlock clamp down around the flare of his thick head. “Christ, Sherlock…” John bit his lip to keep from getting too loud. 

The rhythm they set was slow and deep, their hips lifting or dropping to meet. Sherlock twisted his fingers into the bedding, and his hair tangled around his head as he tossed it on the pillow. Caught between them, Sherlock’s cock was worked over with each thrust. It worked together with the teasing his prostate was being given whenever John snapped his hips just  _ so _ . 

It came out of nowhere, rolling up on him to Sherlock’s surprise. He let go of the sheets and grabbed John’s hips instead to urge him in deeper. His breath came out in husky gasps and he tightened his legs around John’s waist as he arched up with a cry. Thick ropes of semen spilled out to coat his chest, one burst going so far as to strike his cheek and leave a glossy smear across his face. 

John nearly lost the pace, too absorbed in what he was seeing. Sherlock’s face turning red and his eyes heavy and hooded. The pearly fluid painting his skin. Mussed and sweat dampened hair clinging to his forehead and temples. It was all so wonderfully ordinary, John was thrilled. He ducked his head to lick at the mess Sherlock had made of his cheek and kissed his bite swollen bottom lip before giving one final, deep thrust. 

He reached down with one hand to hold the base of his cock, squeezing it in time with the churning muscles that were still milking him. The condom swelled but held secure, filling with John’s come as his body shook and jerked. He sat up on his heels, still buried deep inside of Sherlock, not wanting to withdraw until the last possible moment. When he felt himself soften, John groaned and fumbled for a few tissues to clean up the mess as he pulled out. 

Too happy where he was to break the mood by running to the loo for clean flannels, John sorted through his drawer to find a pack of moist towelettes from the last time they had ordered ribs. Sherlock lay sleepy and sated, making no effort to help John as he cleaned the drying mess off his chest and stomach. 

Neither of them cared that the lights were all still on downstairs, or that Mrs. Hudson eventually came home and complained about the mess of clothes and abandoned clothes, or that it was far too hot on the top floor for them to be cuddled as close as they were. Sherlock had his head on John’s chest, and John stroked his back and neck until he began to nod off and their breathing slowed. 

John’s chest was rising and falling slowly, Sherlock’s arm draped across his abdomen moving with it. His eyes were closed and his face perfectly relaxed and serene, something Sherlock had never seen during any of the many times John had fallen asleep on the sofa after a long case or a hard shift. 

“I love you.” It was soft, hardly more than a breath into the dark room, almost drowned out by the sounds of the city outside the window.

One corner of John’s mouth quirked up in a lopsided smile and he tightened his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. Without opening his eyes he turned his head to press a kiss to Sherlock’s tangled hair. “I know. It’s nice to hear it out loud for once.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a giant nerd and I will be very happy if anyone catches A- which film they are watching and as a result, B- the actor they are talking about.


End file.
